


observations (and confirmations)

by theprophetsaid



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Engagement, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content (in the first part), M/M, Mild Sexual Content (in the second part), Roger POV (in the first part), Secret Relationship, roger likes jumping to conclusions (but he might not be wrong)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29635629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetsaid/pseuds/theprophetsaid
Summary: Part two summary:Choosing a beginning is hard.But Brian owes it to the silver band between his fingertips, just as he’ll owe it to his knee when it hits the ground. Most of all, he owes it to the only sun that he’s ever known. When he was a child, he spent a lot of his time staring up at the sky, but his father always warned him about the light. ‘Don’t stare at it, you’ll go blind’ he said, and Brian listened… he bent to that warning his entire life only to discover something that even Galileo could not:The real sun is a person.Brian’s looked directly at Freddie for years. Now, he can’t see anything else.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45





	1. observations

**Author's Note:**

> This is, by far, the most unconventional thing I've ever done. For some reason, I really wanted to experiment with writing a fic from an outsider's perspective (Roger) before an insider's perspective. So, I hope you'll enjoy reading about Roger's short _Observations_ before you get the full extent of the relationship as experienced by Brian and Freddie.
> 
> Don't know what came over me. But I _think_ it works LMAO.

It’s strange, is it not? How the truth can descend upon you like an afternoon shadow, falling through the curtains. When it does, it briefly alters the way you perceive, well, everything; after just a moment’s passed, the now darkened colours of the living room is the new normal. It is _only_ normal, until the next shift, that is, when the sun rises again.

That’s how Roger feels these days. Over the last eight years, his eyes have accustomed to many sights: Flushed skin and pupils blown wide, filling hazel eyes; Freddie rolling his hips against Brian’s thigh, and lips pressed thin to hide a smirk. Sure, his view of it might be limited by the drums, but he _sees_ and, yeah, at some point he thinks he’s seen it all; all that they are.

But then he _hears,_ an argument so different from their usual ones about tempo and style, so broken that it makes him pause behind the stage door,

 _“_ —Then say it! Fucking _tell me,_ ” Freddie hisses,

“… You know I love it,” Brian says, sounding out of breath, out of spirit.

“WELL, ‘IT’ IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH! Not for me,” is the shout followed by a slammed door and a sob, strangled to sound like a cough.

Later, that same night, Roger returns to the hotel with a lady on his arm, and passes Brian’s suite on the way to his own. Even in the buzzed state, brought on by the drinks, he makes out the sound of a groan. Or maybe it’s a moan; the sounds are far too similar to tell apart, and Roger doesn’t care enough to try. Neither does he care enough to question the smell of cigarettes and sweat in Brian’s dressing room when he enters it to nick a beer.

All of these observations… he accepts them as part of the wild stage presence of his two bandmates, the electricity between them, fuelled by tension.

He doesn’t, for one moment, think that he has seen his friends in the wrong way, that he has _misheard_ them all of these years, but the truth, exactly like a shadow, is clearer in the sunlight. When the Houston heat hits its peak around midday, Roger thinks he’s losing his senses because he’s looking at Brian and Freddie leaning against the white wall of the hotel in a completely _normal_ fashion, casual even.

Yet something about it looks quite extraordinary, makes him remove his sunglasses and do a double take.

Their shoulders are brushing, their heads bent together, and the smiles on their faces are radiant; it is, per definition, not unusual at all. However, despite this, Roger looks at them and sees things that he never has before: How easy it would be for Brian to wrap an arm around Freddie’s shoulder to tug him closer, how natural it would be for Freddie to, at any given moment, rise up on his tiptoes to kiss Brian’s cheek.

Roger blinks. Several times.

Nothing like that happens, but he still can’t shake the very possibility of it. Of course, his first thought is to turn to Deaky and ask, ‘ _Are you seeing this?’_ But he definitely isn’t; he’s got his nose buried in a magazine and, again, there is nothing special about the way Brian and Freddie _are_ right now.

For some reason, though, Roger issuddenly willing to consider that he might _not_ have seen it all.

At the end of the tour, they go their separate ways until the label wants another album. At least, that’s been the unwritten law for years. Since Queen was formed, they’ve treasured the time and space that they have to be apart; it makes them appreciate their time together more. But from the very first moment that Brian steps into the recording studio, Roger can sense it: _The rule has gone to shit._

 _“_ Well, don’t you look happy,” he remarks, trying not to sound too suspicious. Still, it’s incredibly difficult when Brian’s usually neutral expression has been lifted by a bright smile.

“And _tan,_ ” is Deaky’s addition as his eyes travel over the guitarist. “Been on vacation, have you?”

To Roger’s annoyance, Brian only hums in affirmation and doesn’t provide any details. Instead, he grabs the neck of The Red Special, suggesting that they get to work. Without Freddie. When John points out that they’re missing a band member, Brian shrugs. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”

Freddie, then, has the audacity to arrive less than a minute later. Much like Brian, he’s sporting a tan, though this is normal for him during the summer. It doesn’t _have to_ mean anything and, for that reason alone, Roger tries his hardest to brush it off as they work. Distracted by the music, he nearly forgets about the whole thing, partly because he _wants to_ (he doesn’t like to suspect his friends, believe it or not). However, toward the end of the studio session, Brian gets in the booth to mess around with some guitar parts; Roger takes the seat next to Freddie in the control room, and _sees_ not only the brilliant sparks in Freddie’s eyes but…

_A new, shining silver ring on his finger._

Bloody hell.

He peers into the booth and quickly realises that Brian doesn’t have one to match. It calms him for just a single second before he reminds himself that _that’s not how engagements work._ A person gives another person a ring when they accept an offer, and although Roger doesn’t know what it’s like, he supposes that you would accept if you were truly happy, even if the person you loved couldn’t give you much.

Observation: You can’t outlaw love. Not really. It lives on.

All Roger needs to do to confirm this is grab Freddie’s elbow before he has the chance to leave and ask, “Are you happy, Fred?”

Freddie’s expression quickly morphs from one of surprise into pure amusement. “What do you mean, darling? Of course I am.”

 _Christ._ He sounds like an absolute lunatic and he knows it. He also knows that this is possibly the worst way to handle the situation, but… “Your ring, Freddie. Are you happy? Does he love you?”

After witnessing his friend’s first, disastrous relationships, the only thing that Roger needs to hear is a clear ‘ _yes’,_ a word that will calm him and let him sleep soundly tonight. But what he gets is so much more than that, “Oh, yeah… He can’t stop saying it now.” _Then say it! Fucking tell me—_

It’s not a name, but it might as well be.

There are a few tears clinging to Freddie’s eyes, like tiny beads, not of sadness but of hope.

And for some reason, Roger is certain: only Brian could have put them there.


	2. confirmations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choosing a beginning is hard. 
> 
> But Brian owes it to the silver ring between his fingertips, just as he’ll owe it to his knee when it hits the ground. Most of all, he owes it to the only sun that he’s ever known. When he was a child, he spent a lot of his time staring up at the sky, but his father always warned him about the light. ‘Don’t stare at it, you’ll go blind’ he said, and Brian listened… he bent to that warning his entire life only to discover something that even Galileo could not:
> 
> The real sun is a person.
> 
> Brian’s looked directly at Freddie for years. Now, he can’t see anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 💕
> 
> I finished this way faster than I thought I would. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it's not too fragmented. 
> 
> Content warning: Emotional abuse (it's only in one section and it's skippable, if anyone needs to do so.)
> 
> Stay safe! ✨

Choosing a beginning is hard. 

But Brian owes it to the silver ring between his fingertips, just as he’ll owe it to his knee when it hits the ground. Most of all, he owes it to the only sun that he’s ever known. When he was a child, he spent a lot of his time staring up at the sky, but his father always warned him about the light. ‘ _Don’t stare at it, you’ll go blind’_ he said, and Brian listened… he bent to that warning his entire life only to discover something that even Galileo could not:

The _real_ sun is a person.

Brian’s looked directly at Freddie for years. Now, he can’t see anything else. Yes, the light is truly blinding, and Brian’s spent far too many of his days veering away from it. He twirls the ring, thinking, pacing in the moonbeam that fills their bedroom. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember meeting Freddie; the memory has all but sunk into the shadows, which pains his heart. 

Still, he can _choose_ the beginning, and that’s what he’s decided to do. It’s just… it’s easy to pick _a_ moment, but it’s nearly impossible to pick _the_ moment that marks the start of their journey: Is it their first kiss, so intense that the mere memory of it still makes him shake? Their first time together, which ripped his world apart and reassembled it in what felt like the blink of an eye? Or is it their first _real_ argument, of trembling fists and raw throats and bitten tongues? 

_No,_ Brian decides, _it’s none of that._

_—_

1970

_“Purple haze, all in my brain_

_Lately things they don't seem the same_

_Actin' funny, but I don't know why_

_Excuse me while I kiss the sky…”_

“You,” Freddie says, “sound just like that,” pulling his upper lip over his teeth to hide a smile.

In just a month, Brian has seen him do that at least a hundred times, so he should be past the point of caring, and yet his heart does a weird little twitch as if it’s being squeezed by his ribs. 

“I do _not,_ ” Brian insists, his cheeks a bit warm, though that may be the heat lasting from dinner, a wonderful curry that his own mum would’ve never dreamt of putting on the table. Still, he feels at home here, especially _right here,_ in Freddie’s space. The bedsheets smell of laundry detergent and the window above them opens up onto a small piece of the night sky. As far as Brian’s concerned, it’s the best view in the world. 

Twisting his head a little to look at Freddie, Brian offers a smile and a belated, “But thanks.” 

Freddie meets his eyes for half a second, then seems to want to turn away, but something makes him stay and leaves his brow furrowed. “You’re wearing eyeliner?” 

“A bit, yeah.”

“How’d you come by it? I haven’t quite had the balls to buy one yet, I’m afraid.” 

Even though he tries to fight it, Brian feels his face grow warmer. “Um, a girl left it. In my bedroom. She was in a hurry—anyway, I nicked it.” For some reason, his skin prickles in anticipation of Freddie’s reaction, which, it turns out, is nothing to fear. 

“ _No,_ ” he gasps theatrically. “You bastard. It can't be that easy.” 

A grin spreads across Brian’s face. “Well, it kinda was. You can borrow it if you want. In fact, I’ve…yes, I’ve got it with me. One second.” 

Before he’s thought it through, he’s left the bed and dug his hands into the bag that he didn’t have time to drop off at the flat after his lecture because he went straight here. And sure, it was a little awkward to show up carrying the deadweight of heavy textbooks, but it eased the conversation into his studies. He hopes that he didn’t bore Freddie’s parents with it; they’d seemed interested, at least enough to ask questions. 

“Aha!” He triumphs when he finally finds the slim pencil. Then he turns back to the sight of Freddie, now sitting cross-legged on the bed, and his mind takes off, disappears down a lane that he hadn’t even known was there. 

Suddenly, it’s not sufficient to simply hand the pencil over. Instead, Brian sits down in front of him and, when Freddie reaches for it, he pulls it away. “Will you let me?” He asks, surprised by the tenderness in his own voice. 

At the question, Freddie blinks in confusion. So Brian asks it again, his hand hovering next to Freddie’s jaw.

“Anything to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, I suppose,” Freddie replies, not without humour, but it still makes Brian’s stomach twist. 

“Close your eyes, Fred.”

After he obeys the gentle command, a small smile blooms on Freddie’s lips; it seems a little fragile, though, as it quivers when Brian cups his jaw. He has to force himself to focus on the eyelids, shut out everything else, but it’s surprisingly difficult. In this quiet, tiny space, every sensation feels _loud:_ The cut of Freddie’s jaw, sharp and distinct, the heat that radiates from his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth….

Brian tries his hardest to keep the black line straight. 

“ _Fred?_ I quite like the sound of that, darling, ” Freddie breathes, keeping his eyes shut.

“Oh,” Pausing, Brian is taken aback by the implication. “No one’s ever called you that before?” It seems unlikely, but… 

“My parents still call me _Farrokh._ And after I told people to call me ‘Freddie’, that’s just what they called me. No one thought of giving me a cute little nickname, definitely _not_ at boarding school.” Although it’s only slightly, Brian can sense the shiver that runs through Freddie’s body at the last bit.

During dinner, Freddie’s dad explained that they sent him to boarding school in India and, although the reasons for it weren’t terribly clear, Brian supposes that it was a way of compelling him to be more independent. Overall, that seems to be the goal of boarding schools: Discipline and education. Still, he hadn’t missed how Freddie shifted in his chair while his parents talked about it. That’s why Brian broached the subject of Freddie’s drawings, saying, ‘ _You must be really proud,_ ’ without spilling the fact that he hasn’t yet seen any of Freddie’s _actual_ work. Unless his chaotic doodles on bar napkins count for something. 

Despite his ability to change the tide of the conversation then, Brian feels quite powerless in the face of Freddie’s vulnerability now. Because of this, he swallows hard and lining Freddie’s left eyelid. And yet, he can’t sit here and do _nothing_ — it’s driving him nuts — so he rubs Fredddie's cheekbone just once with his thumb. 

“Right,” he breathes softly. “I think it’s done.”

When Freddie opens his dark eyes, there is but a trace of sadness left in them, and Brian considers that a success. 

The eyeliner also turned out remarkably well; it adds a refined edge to Freddie’s deep, mysterious gaze. Now, it’s even more captivating, and Brian has to refrain from staring. He imagines that, on a stage, swept in spotlights, it’d be impossible not to look at him. Once he’s realised this, his thoughts drift to Tim, who is a wonderful singer, but… he’s no spectacle. 

Before Brian can stop them, words are pouring out of his mouth, “If we’re gonna be a group like you said, we need to share things, like tricks and ideas,—“ he folds the pencil into Freddie’s palm. “—eyeliner…”

“And personal space?” Freddie offers, tongue-in-cheek.

Just like that, Brian becomes hyper-aware that he can feel a warm breath — _not_ his own — tickle his chin. Still, his body doesn’t want to veer back, and he takes that as a sign, then hears himself say, “Definitely.”

This agreement, it seems, surprises Freddie. Without warning, he rises to his feet, leaving Brian’s eyes to follow his fluid movements across the floor to the mirror on the small closet door. Despite his previous talk about avoiding his reflection, he looks at Brian’s handiwork long enough to make him fidget with the buttons on his shirt cuffs. 

Finally, he has to ask, “So, what do you say?”

Freddie doesn’t meet his gaze, just replies, “Come stand here for a moment, darling.”

At first, Brian didn’t know what to think of the pet names but, after a short month, he responds to them at the drop of a hat. Pushing to his feet, Brian steps tentatively into the bit of space beside Freddie whose lips are being pulled upward into a sly curve, and Brian can see why. 

“Hey, we _match.”_

Now, Brian's smiling, too, because he sees that it’s about so much more than the lines on their eyelids: … They look good together, and Brian supposes that Freddie, the artist, could describe exactly what makes it so. 

Maybe it’s the mess of contrasts: Their height difference, the shape of their faces, the size of their hands. Brian doesn’t know, really, but he still recognizes a wondrous view when he sees it, and, quite arrogantly perhaps, it’s all that he can think about while he walks back to the tube later. 

_I need to be on stage with him._

_Someday…_ _I need to know what that’s like._

_—_

When Tim leaves _Smile,_ Freddie melts into the band as the clouds melt into the sky at dusk. He brings his paint, his clothes, his trinkets, to the flat in cardboard boxes, and Brian insists that they can fit it all in the bedroom that he has, until now, had to himself. 

“I can share my room with him, you know,” Roger says, frowning. Most likely, it’s because he hates moving, especially when the stuff isn’t his own. “We already work together at the stall, so…”

Brian puts down a box next to the cheap bed that they bought for Freddie yesterday. “Well, the bed’s already in here. And I thought, ‘Hey, maybe they’ll need a break from each other after being at the market all day.’”

“You may be right.” Roger shrugs. 

A moment later, Freddie waltzes in through the front door, carrying the last cardboard box with what looks like a vintage handbag on top of it. Immediately, Roger tries to pull it off, but Freddie steps back, sticking out a hand to stop him. “Oh _no_. Don’t touch, Rog.” 

“Sorry, I thought it was for the stall.” When Brian raises an eyebrow, Roger shoots him a dull glare. “What? It’s in good condition.” 

“Of course it is! It’s my _mum’s,_ ” Freddie says, which makes the drummer look more dumbfounded than ever, the question ‘ _why on earth would you have your mom’s handbag?’_ leaving his lips in a murmur. 

Over the sound of his own thoughts, Roger fails to notice Freddie leaning toward Brian to whisper, “It’s full of makeup.” Then he strides into the bedroom.

Brian’s smile lasts the rest of the day. 

Over the next few weeks, Freddie proves himself, not only as a roommate but as an artist. Sure, he burns every bit of food that he touches and his clothes are always flung about the room in the morning; it doesn’t really matter because _oh… he can sing._ That’s exactly how it dawns on Brian one morning when he can’t solve equations over the voice that comes from the bathroom

“I said ‘ _Hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart, sweet Mary Lou—“_

 _“—I’m so in love with you,_ ” Brian mutters along, tapping the bud of his pencil on his notebook. Several times, he tries to force himself to go back to his work, but when Freddie’s singing like that in the shower, he finds it impossible. 

All that he can think about is that potential. Even at a fair distance, Freddie’s voice sounds incredibly powerful, like a perfect match for the grand sound that Roger and Brian had been fiddling with since before he grew into the band. With their studies, though, they haven’t yet had much time to work on it _together,_ which sucks because if they…

Freddie walks into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, disrupting Brian’s idle thoughts. “What are you working on, dear?” 

Turning on the chair to face him, Brian smiles. “Just some calculations, it’s quite boring really.” 

Of course, Freddie doesn’t look like he’s about to disagree with that statement, and yet, as he goes to put on the shirt he’d picked out, he says, “Huh. I thought you loved that kinda thing.” 

“Yeah, but it’s nothing compared to your singing,” Brian blurts, then cringes at how awkwardly he managed to throw that into the conversation. 

Freddie’s eyes widen. “You heard me? Oh, of course you did. This flat is the size of a fucking matchbox.” 

Letting out a chuckle, Brian rises to his feet and stretches, which his back is grateful for after the hour that he spent in the chair. “You have a good voice…” _Understatement. “…_ You just need to control it a little more, I guess. Your runs—“ 

“Take off like a rocket sometimes, I know,” Freddie admits, buckling a belt around his already-tight jeans. “It gets to the point where the voice feels bigger than me. I realise I sound like an arrogant arsehole saying that, but…”

“No, I know what you mean.” Curious, Brian picks up the necklace that lies at the end of Freddie’s bed; it’s black, adorned with onyx, definitely too fancy for an art class. 

“I like to be outrageous, dear,” Freddie says, pursing his lips and practically reading his thoughts. “Gotta turn heads somehow.” 

At that comment, Brian grins. “I don’t doubt that this will do the trick. Turn around.”

Though a hint of puzzlement crosses Freddie’s expression, he complies anyway. And just like that, once again of his own accord, Brian is stepping into Freddie’s personal space, this time to fasten the decadent chain around his neck. It only takes a second, but it still breeds wonderment in his mind: First of all, he doesn’t know _why_ he felt the need to do this, and second… he wonders where his breath has gone. 

Abandoning questions that he can’t answer, Brian returns to something familiar. “Don’t worry, by the way. Your voice isn’t bigger than you. It’s a part of you. You _own_ it. Remember that.” 

“Thanks, Brian.” As Brian pulls his hands back, his thumb grazes the back of Freddie’s neck, and his voice shudders a bit when he continues, “I really gotta run, I’m fucking late again, but I’ll see you after class.” 

_After class_ is not really after class, though, because Brian’s teaching at the comprehensive school today. And then he has his lecture at the university until 6 PM. Tuesdays threaten to _murder_ him. In fact, most days of the week do. He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as energy is concerned, and Roger has pointed out the dark circles under his eyes multiple times, which is just _terrific._ It doesn’t help that autumn seems to have lost its pride and color, leaving the world in a dreadful gloom. 

But there’s still Freddie. 

Freddie, who has figured out how to make tea just the way Brian likes it. As soon as Brian has dropped his bag on the floor, Freddie peeps around the corner, passing him a mug of steaming Earl Grey, strong with just a pinch of sugar. “Here you go.”

Freddie, who always has a smile for him. 

“Thank you. Have you eaten?” 

At the question, Freddie scrunches up his nose. “Roger cooked tomato soup. I think there might be some left over if you’re—“

“I think I’ll pass,” is an irresponsible answer, but Brian truly feels that he can’t even manage to pull a bowl out of the cabinet, let alone re-heat cold, canned soup. Right now, all he wants to do is fall into bed and try to vitalise himself a bit before the stress nightmare starts over tomorrow. 

Freddie jumps in his way, barring him from entering the bedroom. “Darling, you have to eat something. I’ll heat it up and bring it to you, alright? How’s that sound?”

_Good, despite the risks of letting Freddie anywhere near the stove._

For safety's sake, Brian peeks into the living room to find Roger sitting on the couch, twirling a drumstick between his fingers while his biology book lies open in his lap. “Hey, would you mind—“

“Making sure Fred doesn’t burn the house down? _Sure,_ Bri,” Roger responds without looking up. 

“Excellent.” 

Dressing down and crawling into bed with the tea in hand is the highlight of his day, Brian thinks, until he remembers the sound of Freddie’s vocals this morning. With a voice like that, the band will have a shot, a chance to make it to the stars, he’s sure of that and, frankly, his belief in Freddie is bigger than his belief in himself. 

When Freddie shows up, carrying a bowl of soup and wearing a bright smile, a bit of weight falls off Brian’s chest. He takes it gratefully, then is slightly surprised because Freddie doesn’t leave. Instead, he sits down on his own bed. “Now you can tell me about Halley. You fell asleep last night.”

“Oh,” Brian remembers how late they stayed up last night, trying to finish their university assignments, but he doesn’t remember spitting out astronomy facts, and he certainly hadn’t realised that Freddie was listening. 

Freddie looks intently at him. “Is it a girl you like? Strange name then, isn’t it?” 

Lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth, Brian chuckles. “Yes, very strange, but not for a man.” The implications of his words don’t dawn on him until Freddie’s eyes widen. 

Heat floods Brian’s face. “No, _no,_ I mean… Halley is a comet. _Halley’s comet._ It's named after a man, that’s what I—”

“Don’t sweat it, darling. Just talk.” 

Slowly, as he rambles on about things he knows, all of the things that he doesn’t start to worry him less; he feels the tension seep out of his shoulders and notes how the sparks in Freddie’s eyes make his chest feel warm. 

(Interlude — A Hypothesis:

_If the sun gives life to all living things,_

_Then it must also give life to me…_ )

*

_‘_ Just one moment,’ was what Brian promised, but it’s been fifteen minutes already.

Funnily enough, though, Freddie doesn’t mind that so much now, when he can sit in _their_ garden and sip on a glass of red wine; the Tenerife sun is dying, its paint strokes across the sky turning mellow, just like Freddie’s memories of Brian. Still, there is a certain one that still tears at him, even though it’s years old by now. And _just one moment_ reminded him of it. 

Of something he told Brian in a cramped bar, lowly so that others wouldn’t hear but with enough force to cut deep: ' _You’re just a moment guy, Brian. That’s all you fucking are!'_ He said it because he thought it was true and, sure, because he was hurt and tired and so desperately in love that the idea of scattered _moments,_ even the great ones, was simply not worth it. 

Not worth the heartbreak or the tears. 

But, of course, Freddie found out how wrong he was, and now he’s ashamed that such a lie could ever leave his mouth. It’s quite impossible to reduce his relationship with Brian to a series of moments, let alone a singular one, as he has _always_ been there. And, in a way, they have always been exactly what they are right now. Freddie could pick any given hour of any day from the past eight years, and it would have a _moment_ worth cherishing, a piece that has led them to this wonderful place, little by little. 

_Yes,_ Freddie decides, _It’s all of them._

—

1972

Nostalgia pulls Freddie out of his sleep, simply by tugging at his heartstrings: the light scent of vanilla mixed with cinnamon has him thinking, for just a minute, that he’s back in Zanzibar. But as the haze thins, clearing from his mind, he realises that he isn’t in his mum's kitchen. 

He’s lying on a battered sofa; there’s a blanket wrapped around him, and the sound of heavy, English rain thrashing against the old windows in their flat makes the dreamscape disappear entirely — except for _one_ little bit: the scent of the spices. It keeps the memory of a truly awful day at bay. 

Sitting up, Freddie rubs the sleep from his eyes until a low, “ _Fuck,_ ” from the kitchen catches his attention.

Roger, definitely.

Seconds later, Brian’s voice comes through, a quip that makes him sound like someone’s mother, “I just took them out of the oven.”

Ignoring this, Roger keeps complaining, “I got bloody burned!” as if he _just can’t believe._

Even though he can’t see it, Freddie envisions the drummer’s indignant glare. This image alone would’ve made Freddie chuckle if it weren’t for Brian rounding the corner at that exact moment and stopping in his tracks at the sight of him. 

A gentle smile, _his best kind,_ blooms on Brian’s lips. “Ah, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

Of course, Freddie would love to reply, but his mind is too distracted by the bit of flour that’s stuck to Brian’s jaw. As a result, it takes Brian raising his eyebrow for Freddie to speak, “Like a baby. How long have I been out for?”

“About three hours, I think. But you should ask Roger. I only got here an hour ago myself.” 

_Oh. Right. It’s a Tuesday,_ which Brian has justifiably referred to as one of the nine circles of Hell. Perhaps for the first time ever, Freddie appreciates that description for more than its dramatic value. While Freddie looks at Brian whose eyes are so tender despite the shadows that linger beneath them, the weight of the day comes crashing down on him.

It’s like a fucking ton of bricks, and he has to sigh to keep his throat from tightening. 

To Freddie’s surprise, Brian sits down next to him on the sofa. “Roger told me you had a bad day at the stall.” 

Although he probably needs to talk to someone about it, Freddie doesn’t want to burden Brian with his problems, especially not on a _Tuesday._ To relieve his friend’s concerns, he flicks his hand in weak dismissal and tries to sound flippant as ever, “Just a few rude tourists, dear.” 

Brian’s frown grows deeper. Frankly, Freddie should’ve known that it would because, since he came out to his bandmates two months ago, _rude_ has become synonymous with ‘homophobic.’ Generally, Freddie feels at home in Kensington. On the best days, he even feels like he blends in with the masses, and Roger’s always by his side so that helps, but… 

Tears start to blur his vision, compelling him to look down.

But then Brian’s thumb starts drawing idle patterns on his knee. What means more, however, is that Brian doesn’t waste his breath on talking about the assholes. Instead, he murmurs, “I baked some biscuits for you.” 

Just like that, everything clicks. The nostalgic scent, Roger burning himself, the flour on Brian’s jaw. Struck speechless, Freddie raises his eyes and hand to gaze at Brian as he rubs the flour off his skin; there’s a bit of coarse stubble underneath it that prickles the pad of his thumb.

Freddie’s heart leaps, so he distracts himself by asking a question, “What kind of biscuits?”

“Your mum’s. I doubt they’re anywhere near as good as hers, but at least it won’t be for lack of trying.”

Now, Freddie’s throat is tightened, despite his efforts, by a string of emotions; his heart is overflowing with them, too: Most are unidentifiable, but that doesn’t make it any less overwhelming. Overcome by it, Freddie all but flings his arms around Brian’s neck, wrapping him in a hug. 

He tries not to freeze in panic when Brian doesn’t respond right away. _Please, don’t go rigid. Don’t reject me,_ are the thoughts that flash in his mind like a broken neon sign. Still, they don’t get to send him into a spiral; they melt away when Brian’s hand wraps around the back of his head. 

For someone who seems to be at the brink of collapse, Brian’s surprisingly steady and strong. 

And he smells of cinnamon, sweet with the slightest bit of heat. 

“I still don’t know how I managed to coax the recipe out of her,” Brian says, as he — to Freddie’s despair — begins to pull away. 

Trying to mask the mess of emotions coursing through his body, Freddie mirrors his easy grin and says, “Oh but _I_ do. She adores you.” It’s not untrue either. 

After Brian left the house, there were so many sparks in her eyes that she failed to notice the eyeliner across Freddie’s lids. At dinner, it was obvious how impressed she was with Brian’s intelligence and humble demeanor. While it’s something that Freddie can relate to, he’s more enchanted by Brian’s musicianship, especially his guitar abilities. 

‘ _What an extraordinary young man,’_ his mum had remarked, and Freddie had agreed because there is just something beyond magical about the way Brian wields a guitar. 

At the time, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, though. 

In fact, Freddie can’t pinpoint it until three weeks later. They’re in the studio at 2 AM, wired up on black coffee and boisterous self-belief. Because they’re relegated to the unwanted time slots, they often end up working on a heap of different ideas at the time, desperate to prove themselves and, perhaps, even more desperate to make ends meet. He can tell by the look on Roy’s face that they’re driving him insane. 

“ _Jesus_? _”_ The producer blinks rapidly at the song title as if he’s expecting it to change at any minute. “Are you serious?” 

“Serious, dear? Never. You should know that by now.” 

Roger cracks up, and Brian takes a break from frowning at his drained coffee cup just to smile at Freddie. 

An act of desperation, it seems, Roy throws a glance over his shoulder at John. But — much to the producer’s dismay and Freddie’s, too, frankly — the bass player hasn’t found his place in the group yet, let alone a position to challenge anyone else’s ideas. 

Freddie likes a challenge, though. Most of the time, it’s Brian who poses them, but he has no reason to complain about this track because Freddie’s worked out some interesting parts for him. 

Eager to hear something from the quiet man, Freddie asks, “Come on, what do you think?”

Deaky shrugs. “Haven’t heard it yet.”

_Fair enough._

To hear the bassist’s opinion, they lay down the drum-heavy backing track and overdub Brian’s guitar solo. It is this that makes Freddie realise exactly what is so captivating about Brian’s playing: When he’s alone in the booth, it doesn’t matter that it’s the darkest hours of the night, he has Freddie feeling wide-awake; the electrified sounds of The Red Special are running down his spine, and he even forgets to help with the controls because he’s too busy watching Brian’s fingers... 

Brian’s fingers might as well _be_ the guitar; he melts into the instrument; it’s a part of him. He trusts it enough to close his eyes at one point. 

And Freddie stares even harder, struck motionless by awe. 

After a dozen takes, Roy is convinced that the solo is as seamless as it can be. Still, Freddie demands one more. And another. It’s fine, he thinks, because Brian doesn’t appear to tire. Not when he’s doing this. 

“I guess I’m just gonna refill the coffee pot,” Roger mumbles, pushing off the couch to his feet, and Freddie shoots him a quick smile. 

Eager to stretch his legs, it appears, John offers to go with him. 

By the time they return, Brian is removing his headphones and stepping out of the booth, which earns relieved sighs. Still, before going home, they decide to drink some whiskey and coffee in honour of the sun that’s showing its first colours on the horizon outside. 

Clutching his cup like a lifeline, Brian takes the seat next to Freddie on the small sofa. He doesn’t even need to lean in to whisper, but he does it anyway, his hot breath close to Freddie’s ear. “So, did you like it?” 

Freddie feels his skin prickle as Brian’s nose grazes his temple. More than anything, his mind wants to disappear down an unexplored alley, but he can’t allow it. He _can’t._

He can’t go there.

“It was terrific, Bri.” Using his nickname is nothing if not a reminder to himself, a harsh one, that Brian is his fucking _friend._ His friend, who happens to be a guitar god, an excellent baker, and _straight._

He thinks of the red lipstick-stained tissue that he saw in the bin next Brian’s bed.

Definitely straight. 

“Good,” is Brian’s only response, perhaps cut short by the yawn that follows it. Then, seemingly without thought or reason, he decides to rest his head against Freddie’s, his eyelids fluttering. 

_Oh, he’s just tired. I did manage to run him down. Poor guy—_

Freddie’s thoughts are interrupted by the weight of someone’s gaze resting on him. Glancing to his left, he finds John sitting in the chair by the controls. When Freddie meets his stare, he turns away too fast, shielding his expression from any kind of inspection. 

Puzzled, Freddie keeps looking until Brian stirs next to him. “Sorry, did I doze off?”

“Maybe a bit,” Freddie replies, brushing a stray curl away from Brian’s eyes. “We should be heading home now, I think.” 

At that comment, Roger rises from his chair. “Halle-fucking-lujah. Thank you, _Jesus._ ”

Only Roger can make people laugh at this ungodly hour, and only Freddie can pull Brian to his feet when he doesn’t want to move an inch. If Freddie must, he will transfer the last bit of his own energy to Brian just to get him back home safely. 

(Interlude — A verse:

**John 4:48**

_‘Unless you people see signs and wonders,’ Jesus told him. ‘You will never believe.’_

John, in that chair by those controls, 

blinking white and gold, saw signs,

he saw a wonder.

And so, he believed.)

*

Brian wonders if he should tell Freddie about the dreams; the dreams that now feel more like visions or premonitions, considering everything that they made him realise… everything that they made him face. When he was in the hospital, stuck in a painkiller-induced haze for most of the day, they intensified, but they didn’t _start_ there. Not at all. 

The first he saw of Freddie while sleeping was nothing more than the flick of a wrist. _Black-painted nails,_ wrapped around a microphone. Abruptly, Brian had awoken, not sure what to make of it until he saw the nail varnish bottle on the bedside table and lifted his hand from beneath the covers. 

They were white to match. 

Though these dreams were as vivid as his usual ones, they were strangely fragmented, like a music tape with missing parts and long, hollow breaks. Sometimes, it was the sharp scent of sweat with no apparent source or the heat of red spotlights on bare skin. 

In the beginning, Freddie wasn’t bounded to the visions, perhaps because he wasn’t a part of their truth then. 

But _oh boy,_ did he become that when he brought his new boyfriend into Brian’s hospital room to _introduce_ them. Since Freddie’s first two relationships had lasted less than a month, the bar for Richard was low, but Brian had still demanded to meet him when he felt better, which he did. Somewhat. 

At the second he saw this man with his arm wrapped possessively around Freddie’s shoulders and his cold eyes flashing, Brian felt like hell all over again. 

—

1974

This morning, Brian wakes up and reaches for someone who isn’t there. This morning, his heart sinks as the sun rises, beckoning a new day. The fact that he stirred awake with another man’s name on his lips is, at this point, not nearly as jarring as the feeling of cold sheets, and he has to will himself out of bed. 

_Once you recover,_ the doctors told him, _it will get better._

Better. Right. 

They have a show at The Rainbow tonight; if he felt any different, and if his mind didn’t keep drifting to Fred, Brian supposes that it couldn’t possibly get _better_ than that. 

But Richard will be in the crowd, and the thought of it is enough to make Brian feel sick to his stomach in just the way he does whenever Freddie flinches at sudden, loud noises in the studio or makes an off-hand comment about his appearance. It should take Brian back to that night four years ago, to what Freddie said about avoiding his own reflection. These days, his self-deprecation is humourless, though. 

He wonders if he’s reading into it; if his clenched jaw and hopeless heart could actually make these things up. Terrible things, too. 

What Brian witnesses backstage before the show, however, doesn’t even belong in the wildest imagining. While he’s putting on his white silk outfit, voices are raised right outside of his dressing room. The first one he hears belongs to Freddie, “ _—But it’s not like that!_ ” The high pitch immediately alerts Brian’s senses. 

“ _Yeah, so you say,”_ Richard responds without missing a beat, his voice icy. “ _I’ve heard it all before, Freddie. Always the same nonsense. And then you go right back out there and fucking do it again!”_

The walls may as well have shaken at that shout. It’s pulled Brian’s hand to the doorknob and brought his mind to count the seconds before Freddie dares to respond: 1… 2… 3… 4...

“ _Look, you—you can’t control what I do on stage. It’s my job. It’s my passion—“_

“ _Oh? Grinding on him is your passion? Well fuck me—_ “ It’s in the unnecessarily cutting tone, the deliberate misconstruction of Freddie’s words, and the coldness; it’s in the raised hairs on the back of Brian’s neck and the nausea rising in his throat. 

It has _toxic waste_ written all over it. Toxic waste of a heart as kind as Freddie’s. 

That thought drills itself into Brian’s mind and makes him push the door open. The sight that meets him is startlingly… still: Richard’s posture is stiff yet large, towering over Freddie, whose shoulders are pulled back and feet planted firmly on the ground as if at the edge of an invisible cliff. 

“We have an hour, Fred,” Brian says, just to say something. 

But it isn’t Freddie who speaks next. 

“Oh hey, Brian. You don’t need that long for a soundcheck, do you?” Richard asks after plastering a fake grin on his face. Even his tone is casual suddenly if you overlook the hint of condescension. _How fucking twisted._

Still, Brian is not intimidated. He has faced enough bullies and pricks in his lifetime to understand how he needs to carry himself through a sticky situation. So, he looks Richard in the eye and says, flat-out, “No, not on a good day, but it does take that long to get dressed. And our audience isn’t expecting to see Freddie like that.” 

Brian gestures to Freddie’s jeans and t-shirt, making sure to brush the length of his spine with his fingertips before he pulls his hand back; it’s rigid as an iron pole...

_I’m here._

The smile that shows on Freddie’s face is tight and unnatural.

_Let’s go._

At the show, Freddie stays true to himself on stage, which means, of course, that he plays a part: he struts and bends and twirls to the music as if he was fucking born to do so, and Brian feels an intense flare of pride in his chest every time he allows himself to look at it. 

To his sheer dismay, solos demand focus, and it’s during those that Freddie flows into his space. Brian doesn’t need to see it to know where his body is; he is pulled toward it, his heart beating far too fast, and when they collide it only lasts a second. But the _friction r_ emains.

The drag of Freddie’s crotch near his hip leaves his throat dry, his mind reeling. 

Luckily, he knows the chords by heart… “ _Crazy. Stone cold crazy, you know._ ”

For a moment, Brian’s selfish enough to wish that he could see Richard’s face in the crowd. Beyond that, he’s selfish enough to hope that it made the man leave.

But Brian has no such power. 

All he can do is watch the public arguments as they continue throughout the month. Several times, Roger steps in to separate them while Brian seethes in the corner, clutching a fourth or fifth drink. In this situation, he’s utterly useless, partly because he fears making it worse and, at this point, the poison swirling in his gut whenever he sees them together could turn him into something that he doesn’t want to be: _Another iron grasp, overprotective and possessive._

The longer the feeling grows inside him, the more intense his need becomes; he wants to pull Freddie close and never let go, he wants to grip Freddie’s shoulders to soothe his own trembling hands; he wants so much more that he could never say out loud. 

One night, he’s forced into action. 

Roger, too drunk to carry a decent conversation, pushes Freddie into Brian’s corner. “Here ya go, Bri. Feel free to remind him that Richard’s a fucking prick.” 

“I’m sure he knows at this point,” Brian mumbles, then pulls his drink away when Freddie reaches out to grab it. 

Quickly, he throws his head to the side, signaling to Roger that he’s _got this._ In truth he’s barely keeping it together, hanging by a thread, fraying at the edges… and the devastation in Freddie’s gaze doesn’t help: His usually bright eyes now resemble dark, bottomless pools, full of tears that won’t fall. 

The air in Brian’s lungs thins at the sight. Unable to form words of comfort, he tugs a strand of hair behind Freddie’s ear and caresses his temple for a second. A broken whimper escapes Freddie’s lips, and Brian’s heart _shatters._

“He doesn’t ever do that, does he?” The question, drenched in swelling misery, has left Brian’s mouth before he can stop it.

His lips quivering, Freddie seemingly gives up on answering. Instead, he turns, allowing just enough space and time for Brian to press a lingering kiss to his forehead, before burying his face in his chest. 

“ _Please,_ Fred,” Brian whispers, blinking to hold back tears of his own. _Don’t let him take your light,_ is what Brian wants to say, but all that comes out is another quiet, “Please…”

There is a reason why the world stands still during an eclipse. But, whether it is by a force of nature or by the power of gods, the sun always comes back, ruler of the sky, bringer of life. You’d be a fool if you, like Richard, thought that you could overpower it. 

The sun always finds its way. Though they may be penniless, clinging to survival by the end of the darkening, Freddie waltzes into the studio a week later, his head full of songs, his heart free of sorrow…

… And light pours into the room.

—

_Hunger,_ it bites and it snarls, wondering why you can’t just _fucking_ feed it. If you ignore it long enough, it will become a fire, just to burn and be felt. No matter what you do to contain it, it grows stronger. 

Lately, Brian thinks he is nothing but flames, eager to ignite, to hiss, to swallow things whole… to lick delicate skin. During a show, he notices beads of sweat on Freddie’s neck as it whips back during a riff, and he almost forgets how to play. Because all he wants to do is touch despite knowing everything that it might destroy. 

It’s ridiculous, it’s _dangerous._

Still, it feels so natural. When Freddie leans against him, Brian turns into him further, feels the power of his voice as he belts into the microphone, “ _Oh, yeah!_ ”

The sound, hot and ragged, creeps down Brian’s spine, then floods his chest with heat. He might not last another minute, let alone a potential encore; this is _way_ bigger than him, and yet he’s the only one who knows about it, it seems. The roar of the crowd is deafening; the lone thing that's powerful enough to distract him even a little bit. 

But even that turns into a muffled echo when Freddie kneels at his feet. 

In Brian’s dreams, it doesn’t happen to a tune, and it doesn’t end in dark eyes piercing hazel ones. Frantic, Brian knows that he needs to control his thoughts before they fall into fantasy, but the line between that and reality is blurry at the moment: Freddie is close enough to touch; Freddie is bending to the sounds that Brian makes…

Freddie clearly _loves_ it.

Even if it is all over too soon. 

This time, the rude awakening comes when Roger does his final cymbal roll, bringing them to the centre of the stage to take a bow. Brian looks at the crowd and is struck by its previously drowned-out cacophony as it threatens to make his ears bleed. Moreover, his body feels hot and useless, like it’s been left to dry in the desert.

His throat feels raw like he’s been screaming, but if that’s the case then they’ve all been silent. 

He needs to cool the fuck down, would find some water and splash it on his face if he trusted it to work. Right now, he doubts that it’s enough, so he steps of the backstage door instead. Outside, the air is misty and crisp as it spills onto his flushed face. After only a moment, it begins to seep into his clothes, too, but his heart refuses to be calmed. 

Leaning back against the brick wall, Brian lets eyelids flutter shut, then tries to catch his breath. “Fuck _me._ ”

Sure, Brian meant to pour his frustrations into the night, but someone else responds. With a _chuckle,_ of all things. The sound is light and warm, yet it startles Brian out of his skin, out of the shadows where he’d been hiding. When he steps around the corner, he is met by Freddie. His dark eyes are full of playful sparks to match the smirk on his lips, and a bit of hair is clinging to his forehead, dampened by sweat. 

“Dear God, it was so fucking _hot_!” Laughter sticks to Freddie’s tone, but Brian is unaffected by it. For once, he doesn’t find it infectious. Somehow, it pains him. 

“Had to fight the urge to rip my clothes off in there, as you see,” Freddie takes a swift drag of the cigarette between his fingers, gesturing down at the black unitard that he’s half-removed and tied off around his waist. “I could’ve done it, you know. For everyone to witness.”

At first, Brian only stares, wondering for the first time if Freddie _knows._

He thinks that he’s done his best to hide it, to push it down, but he might’ve been more obvious than he thought. And if—Brian swallows hard, forcing himself to turn away while his heart wrestles to escape its cage—if Freddie indeed knows, then his flippant words prove that he doesn’t take it seriously. 

Brian can feel himself shaking. 

“What’s the matter, dear? I know—”

Before Freddie can finish speaking, the force of Brian’s fear and frustration makes him whirl around. “ _No,_ you don’t know!” It seems, the only thing to survive the fire in his chest was _this_ voice, taut and trembling. “You have _no idea_ what you do to me!” 

Freddie blinks, though Brian hardly sees it; he’s blinded as he steps forward, ruled by the searing adrenaline in his veins and the fire that has all but consumed him. Over the heat, Brian makes out a part of Freddie’s confused murmur — _“Bri…?” —_ before swallowing the rest of it in a kiss. 

A thrill runs up Brian’s spine as he presses Freddie against the wall, hands firm on his hips. Their teeth clash and graze tender lips. For the fraction of a second, Brian is terrified that Freddie won’t respond, but then he _bites_ into it like a starving man, burying his hand in Brian’s curls and tugging enough to sting. 

It’s a rare occurrence for Brian’s mind to shut off completely, but it does now; the bustle of the street, the show still pulsing in his veins, their bandmates right behind the wall, all fades into obscurity until he can only _feel_ his own desperate want like an animal that’s been chained for too long. 

His hands are now free to roam down Freddie’s naked back, the hot and slick skin that has his fingers begging for _more more more._ Within seconds, he’s shaking again, his senses stuck in overdrive, but it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter that he can’t breathe, it doesn’t matter that a part of him wants to cry, it doesn’t matter that he’s far too turned on to imagine going back to the hotel alone tonight. 

“Fuck,” Freddie moans. _Moans._ _“Brian.”_

Not ‘darling’. Not ‘dear’. His _name_ rolling off Freddie’s tongue, bordering a whine. The sound of it stirs something within Brian, something that has been suppressed for so long but is powerful enough to conquer his body. He sucks hot kisses onto Freddie’s throat, jaw, and shoulder while his head whirls from pure _lust._ An inch away from losing all self-control, Brian feels Freddie’s thumbs squeeze beneath the waistband of his pants to push them, tight as they are, down his thighs. 

But the cold shock of the wind against his skin brings Brian back to reality. A reality in which Freddie is already sinking to his knees in a place where anyone could see them.

Although it _pains_ him to do so, Brian steps away. “No, not… We _can’t_.” 

Freddie’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Worrying his lips — _Fuck,_ they sting — Brian meets his eyes and wishes that he wouldn’t look so hurt. “Get up, Fred. Do you know what would happen if the wrong asshole rounded the corner and saw you on your knees like this?”

Perhaps he could’ve said it more delicately, but he’s fucking trembling all over from adrenaline, desire and, now, also guilt. This is his fault; he’d kissed Freddie without thought because, at that moment, he couldn’t do anything else, but he didn’t pause to consider that it could leave them both so riled up and desperate. Desperate enough to risk everything. 

Even being hurt. By strangers. And yeah… 

Freddie slowly rises to his feet, his gaze darting to avoid Brian’s. “You’re right,” he mutters, but it’s far too steeled. 

_… Each other._

—

A week passes. Perhaps some people would say that _nothing_ happens, but it’s the kind of ‘nothing’ that is everything; it’s the silence that screams, the empty space that fills even the largest rooms. They play three nights at different venues in London. For the first two, Freddie doesn’t come anywhere near Brian, sticking to the centre of the stage or to Roger’s drum riser. In fact, Freddie won’t even spare him a glance, which has Brian's stomach twisting and turning into tight knots. 

On the third night, however, Freddie is like a storm that won’t settle. He sings his heart out, making every word bounce off the walls, but Brian thinks it’s the same again: All of the passion that Freddie used to pour into their interactions, he will bring that to his voice now. Brian keeps playing, wishing that he could be happy about that, but his mouth… his _body_ remembers far too much. 

And it misses Freddie. 

For the last number, they decide to play _Keep Yourself Alive._ To go out with a resounding _bang._ Much to Brian’s surprise, Freddie breaks into his space at the very first note, and he doesn’t leave; he is so _there_ , lingering right behind his shoulder or spinning at the corner of his vision. 

Then there are the touches: a hand ghosting along his wrist. “ _Mind you grow a little wiser, little better every day._ ” 

_“But I tell you just be satisfied, stay right where you are._ “ The nudge of a heel against his ankle. 

A fingertip trailing the back of his shoulders. “ _Honey, you’ll survive!”_

Of course, it could never be enough, and Brian’s sure Freddie knows this. Freddie is _taunting_ him, letting his abrasiveness shine bright underneath the spotlights. The worst part is that Brian can’t even hate him for it, knowing that it’d be hypocritical when he was callous, too, and at the most vulnerable moment. 

When the song ends, Brian praises himself as lucky. Because he did survive, if only barely. 

But, it turns out, the show isn’t over yet. Afterward, they choose to go to a bar to wash the night down with a few overpriced drinks but, of course, once they get there, it looks like everyone who’s ever walked on Trafalgar square is packed into the small space. They have to push their way inside and, even though Brian only came here to drink just enough to drown his anguish, he quickly gives up on that idea. 

When he finds an empty corner, he claims it. If he has to stay sober, he needs somewhere to hate himself in peace. 

_Oh, that’s far too kind._

He’s in a sea of people, and yet his eyes find Freddie as soon as he’s leaned back against the wall: Somehow, he’s made it to the bar counter alongside Roger and they’re waiting for their turn to order drinks like thirteen other people. 

As he stares, Brian wonders if Freddie can feel his gaze; if he’s ignoring it. A million questions that have formed in the last week rest on his lips, too fragile to emerge. Of course, the loudest one is, _‘why did it have to go so wrong?’_ The more he thinks about it, the more he starts to believe that he knows the answer, and it has little to do with Freddie and everything to do with…

“Brian!” 

At the sudden sound, Brian looks up and has to blink several times to be sure that he’s not imagining it. Freddie is moving through the noisy crowd, making his way to the corner without a drink in his hand. Maybe he gave up on it and decided to look for some company. Still, Brian doubts that he’d be Freddie’s first choice for that now. 

Freddie stands in front of him. “Is something bothering you, my dear?” 

_What?_ Brian’s mind does a double-take at the question. _He can’t be serious._

 _“_ Oh no, definitely not,” Brian replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I just thought that, since we’ve regressed, I might as well go back to my old ways of staring and, you know, other useless shit.” In truth, he’s surprised by how well he can match Freddie’s snide remarks when he wants to. 

Pressing his lips to a thin line, Freddie takes a step closer. “You put yourself in that position. We could’ve gone further, but you didn’t want to so here we fucking are—“

“Wait,” Brian snaps. “You’re mad because I wouldn’t let you… That’s just—“ 

What cuts him off is Freddie’s expression, crumbling before the desperation creeps into his voice, “ _No,_ Brian. I’m mad because, all along, I was hoping that you were different, but you’re just a _moment_ guy. That’s all you fucking are! And I can’t do it anymore.”

Despite his clenching jaw, Brian manages to murmur, “What does that even mean, Fred?” 

Freddie dares to roll his eyes. “You know, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen a spark in your eye only for it to fucking _die_ at the very next moment. I’m—tired of _almost_ having you.” As he looks away briefly, eyeing the masses next to them, a shadow descends on Freddie’s face. 

Brian struggles to make sense of it, especially… “ _Die?_ If something dies, it’s _gone,”_ the words are said through his gritted teeth. “And what I—what I feel for you, it never goes away.”

“But you _want_ it to. Why do you want it to?”

“Because I’m _scared._ I’m fucking _terrified_!” It’s an eruption, several years in the making, but no one seems to notice or care. No one except Freddie, whose eyes widen in pure shock. 

To stop himself from grabbing Freddie’s shirt collar in desperation, Brian moves his hands through his hair, but nothing can soothe him. So he releases a shaky breath and meets Freddie’s stare, pleading, “I’m afraid of losing everything. Especially _you._ If you can’t understand that, then—“

“Brian…” his name is gentle on Freddie’s lips now. 

But the tears are welling up in Brian’s eyes; the walls are closing in on him, and he can’t be here anymore. "I just—“ he heaves, feeling battered and bruised. “—I need air.”

By some miracle, he makes it through the ocean of moving bodies and out of the heavy glass door before he breaks down, bursting into tears that must be decades old. The fear, the pain, it’s only grown with him over the years. It’s in his lungs and he can’t catch his breath; it’s in his ribs and they could break when the sobs double him over; it’s in his legs… he can barely stand. 

Just when he thinks he’s about to collapse, someone gathers him in their arms. 

“I’m so sorry.” Freddie presses frantic yet soft kisses to Brian’s temple. “God, I’m _so_ sorry.” 

Longing for comfort, Brian cares more about the scent that envelops him when he buries his nose in Freddie’s shoulder than he does about the apology. In fact, the apology makes him want to cry harder because there’s a mean voice at the corner of his mind saying, ‘ _Maybe Freddie’s assessment was right. Maybe you can’t go past the moment.’_

Sometimes, it feels like the fear will live in him forever. 

At every single _moment,_ he’s wondered if he’ll ever be as brave as Freddie is. 

—

They go back to the hotel, not too early and not too late. When the trail of tears on Brian’s face has all but dried and everyone they know is pleasantly buzzed, past the point of suspicion, their fingers lace together, breeding secret warmth in the deserted hallway. Now, standing in front of the door to his room, the fire in Brian’s chest has been reduced to the flame of a candle, tiny but hopeful. 

That’s worlds better. 

“Come inside,” he whispers to Freddie, turning the doorknob. And, in case that’s not alluring enough, he adds, “I’ve got champagne,” a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

Though Freddie’s lips curl upward, it’s marked by hesitance. _No wonder._ For the past hour, he’s apologised in a thousand different ways: with kisses, with gazes, with touches, with words that have been so scarce since what happened last week. Brian’s heart is overflowing with it. 

“Are you sure you want to…?”

“Celebrate?” Brian tugs at his hand gently. “Well, maybe we shouldn’t. But I didn’t get a drink, and I think I deserve one.” 

On a small table next to the bed, he finds a champagne bottle resting in a bucket of ice. Since he bought it on his own dime, mostly to congratulate himself on making it through this hellish year, it’s a far cry from fancy. His knowledge of sparkling wine is limited in general since he’s more inclined toward sherry. 

But _something,_ maybe a distant dream of sharing it with a certain person, compelled him to buy this instead. 

They clink their glasses and sip the lavish drink in silence. Much like the silence that has thrived between them the whole week, this silence is _loud_ but in a completely different way. When their eyes lock over the rims of the glasses, the contact isn’t piercing; it’s another kind of penetration that keeps Brian throat no matter how much he drinks. 

The candlelight in his chest burns brighter now, leaving his chest and face warm. Still, this burning doesn’t frighten him. Perhaps his tears killed the fire, but they didn’t murder the spark in his eyes. It never dies, and he hopes that Freddie can see that now.

Or, better yet, that he can _feel_ it. 

“ _Brian,_ ” Freddie croaks, breathless, as he puts down his glass. “You can’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” It’s not so much about acting innocent because Brian _knows_ his starting is anything but; he just wants Freddie to realise what it means. 

Rubbing his neck, Freddie seems unsure still. “Like you… like you want to…”

A self-satisfied grin grows on Brian’s face before he can help it. These days, it takes a lot to shock Freddie, so Brian views it as a triumph, albeit a small one. “Please, do continue.” 

“Oh whatever, darling. Why don’t you just get on with it?"

Brian can’t tell if Freddie’s genuinely impatient or if he just _can’t compute_ the fact that Brian wants him, even after the kiss. Perhaps it would’ve been different had he accepted the blowjob but, knowing Freddie, it probably wouldn’t.

Stepping closer, Brian cups Freddie’s cheek. “I _want_ you,” he says out loud for the first time, and it’s _so_ real. He’s not stuck in a dreamscape; he’s not shaking so violently that he thinks he might die. 

Freddie, in the same way, seems truer, ever more tangible: He lets out a tiny gasp, then leans in to let their foreheads touch. And the kiss that follows, it’s not ruled by fire or anything else external to them; the sweetness of it, which grows into something much bigger, comes from within them. 

Brian can feel it… in Freddie’s fingertips as they peel the shirt off his shoulders, in their feet that take slow steps back toward the bed, in their lips that reconnect, then reacquaint with skin. 

“Bri? Do you want to stop?” Freddie whispers, hands hovering by his briefs. 

And Brian nods, feeling overwhelmed enough as it is. When Freddie crawls up the mattress to be by his side, snuggling against his chest, Brian believes that that’s all he needs. At least for the time being. 

Nevertheless, it turns out, everything is changed at 5 AM when Brian’s eyes flutter open to the sight of Freddie still lying next to him and gently looking. The pure relief has lips crashing, kisses deep and hungry, hands fumbling in the darkness. At this hour, there is little room for fear, and even though Brian doesn’t know what he’s doing when he settles between Freddie’s thighs, it hardly matters. 

His hands pave the way.

Their bodies have felt the grind, the friction, many times before. This doesn’t have the flair of their stage antics, but it makes more sounds, so it’s just fine. 

Yeah… They’re _just fine._

(Interlude — _Have some champagne!_

Take the Moët et Chandon from your pretty cabinet

And celebrate that we are finally here,

Past midnight and the sun is out

Giving life to the living man

_Wanna try… again?_

Have some champagne!)

*

Whenever Freddie is bored, his mind drifts to sex very easily. He doesn’t think he is any more perverted than the rest of the population, it’s just that… he has an _attentive_ boyfriend. If Brian was half as attentive to anything outside of the bedroom, he would’ve probably returned with that champagne ten minutes ago. But, of course, it isn’t so, and Freddie is kept waiting, wanting, in a way that he never is beneath the sheets.

The perfect man doesn’t exist. 

Brian sometimes forgets his guitar when they’re about to go on stage; he has to be bribed every morning to leave the bed, and his stubborn attachment to the hard rock genre can be _maddening._

The worst of the worst, however, is his tendency to bottle up his emotions until they boil over. 

But he has good, kind hands and a very tender heart…

“Sorry, love! I lost all track of time.” The familiar voice pulls Freddie’s gaze to the house. He finds Brian standing in the doorway, holding up a champagne bottle and two glasses. Halley, the only cat that likes traveling with them, is wrapping her grey tail around his long legs. 

“Oh, never mind, darling.” Grinning excitedly, Freddie rises from his chair to take the bottle. “I know your flaws.”

And Freddie tends to know Brian's reactions to certain remarks; he prides himself on the ability to guess them, but Brian doesn’t roll his eyes affectionately at him as he expects. Instead, he leans in for a soft kiss and then fills both of their glasses. 

Struck curious, his heart fluttering wildly, Freddie asks, “What are we celebrating tonight?”

—

1976

There is nothing quite as heartbreaking as loving someone who doesn’t belong with you. For years, Freddie was convinced that he was right to feel that way, that his heart was meant to be broken by a straight man who could only give him _moments._ Moments of a little something, here and there but never quite everywhere. 

Freddie has never been so _delighted_ about being wrong. Whenever he has the chance, he admits how wrong he was: Every time Brian stays the night at his flat, every time cooks them both dinner and falls asleep in his lap. On mornings of hotel room bliss, on nights that end with a backstage kiss.

If Brian is indeed a ‘moment’ guy, it’s because of how he makes every moment count. 

And that’s only a part of what makes him special. 

No other man has ever painted Freddie’s nails or taken the time to bake his mother’s biscuits; no other man has ever looked at Freddie the way that Brian does, with soft hope and adoration painting his eyes. 

What’s more wonderful is that no other man has ever made Freddie feel so safe. This doesn’t just stem from Brian holding him while they sleep or telling him to trust his pitch; it has a lot to do with how Brian never makes him feel stupid for _needing_ to be held or reassured…

… Or loved. 

Sometimes, the need for love is a desperate kind, the kind that has him screaming on an empty stage because he just wants to _hear_ it and he’s so sure that it has to come from Brian. Brian, who just bought a house in Tenerife with a grand piano and a sunroom ‘for _painting,_ Fred.’

“How can you expect me to live with you if you won’t even ask me directly?”

Brian stops plucking the strings of The Old Lady and gives him a puzzled look. “Sorry?”

“Fuck’s sake, Brian! It’s been two years. No, it’s been _six,_ and you still do this. It’s like you have all of these dreams bout the future, but you’re too afraid to share them with me! Your feelings, I can’t figure them out because you don’t actually talk about—“

Still calm, Brian slowly steps closer. “Alright, just… Tell me what you want to know.” 

Freddie doesn’t waste time. “Why do you want to live with me?”

For some reason, Brian seems taken back by the question. “ _Why?”_

 _“_ Yes, _why.”_

Several hollow, painful seconds pass before Brian’s lips start to form a response, “Well, because I…” but the other half of what he was trying to say seems to die in his throat, and instead of fighting to bring the words back, he turns toward his amp and starts messing with it. 

Freddie, knowing that he’s not doing _shit_ to fix anything, not his amp and not or his fear, becomes furious in seconds. “If you love me, then say it! Fucking _tell me.”_

Forced to face him, Brian looks… _defeated,_ and his voice is struggling to gain conviction; it is but a breath, too weak in the tense atmosphere. “… you know I love it.”

_‘It’? What is that? The sex? The secrecy? The safety?_

_It_ could be anything. Anything but Freddie himself. 

Tears are clouding his vision now, stinging his eyes, and all that he can do to stop them from falling is scream out his anger, “WELL, ‘IT’ IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH! _Not for me._ ” 

And then, as a child would, he storms out, slamming the stage door behind him. This isn’t the first time that they have argued, by any means, but it’s the first time that he feels the weight of each word, of every emotion, crushing him.

Because he _loves_ the scared, stubborn man in there with his whole heart. 

And it kills him that he can’t take Brian’s fear and smother it with his bare hands; it kills Freddie that he’s not powerful enough to do that, that his love alone is not enough to solve everything. 

The stage door is yanked open. Brian’s voice rises, still warm above a slight quiver, “Can we talk?”

Freddie turns because he doesn’t want to walk away. With Brian, it never seems like a worthy option, not when they always work it out in the end. Even now, after the truth and tears spilled, they have cups of Earl Grey while sitting on the edge of the stage; Brian tells him about the stars above Tenerife and the many nights he has lied awake and wished that he was back there. 

Under _that_ sky. 

With the person he loves. 

—

When they have sex on tour, they try to be as discreet as possible. However, they still slip up from time to time, and their quickie in Brian’s dressing room _definitely_ adds to the unfortunate statistic. There’s no window to open and therefore no fresh breeze to conceal their activities; Brian soothes his nerves with a rare drag of Freddie’s cigarette. 

“Relax a bit for me,” Freddie says, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s not that bad.”

“Uh-huh. _Sure._ ” Brian huffs sarcastically. “You weren’t bad _at all._ ”

“Oh, so this is my doing?” Freddie can’t hold back a smirk. He knows _exactly_ what he did, and yet he refuses to apologise for it.

Having sex in hotel rooms is safer, even though they still have to keep relatively quiet; it’s become their little heavenly corner of the world. And, in the morning, they can bask in the afterglow until Roger and John decide that they should all lounge at the pool. 

“I can’t wait ’til we have _our_ place,” Brian whispers, bumping his shoulder against Freddie’s. “Then we don’t have to worry about anyone watching us.” 

“Or hearing us.” Freddie smiles back, his heart fluttering. 

_Just five months. Then they’ll have the keys._

It doesn’t yet feel real. It feels like a dream, but that’s because it is, and Freddie knows how lucky they are. There are millions of people in the world who have no choice but to hide; they have no means of escape, no place to go to feel safe. 

The first time Freddie sits down by the piano at the house, he plays a melody for those people. He might not know them, and yet he knows that they deserve it. 

(Interlude — A melody that sounds:

_Sad and sweet_

_Quiet and loud_

_Broken and whole..._ )

*

1978 — _Now_

Brian doesn’t raise his glass. 

He kneels on the grass and pulls a ring out of his pocket; it twinkles magically in the moonlight and, for a moment, Freddie’s convinced that he’s imagining it. _No…_

 _No, it can’t be,_ he thinks, until he remembers that there once was a time, not so awfully long ago, where he thought that _they_ couldn’t be either. And now they wake up together every day, they make each other laugh and cry and live. 

The tears that glisten in Brian’s eyes are just another proof of life; it makes Freddie’s chest swell in the best way even though his mind still hasn’t quite caught up to what’s happening in front of him. Then Brian starts to speak, “At the beginning,” he says, offering a crooked smile, “You said that we matched one another. I could see it clearly, and I _knew_ that it wasn’t just because we both liked eyeliner…” 

Freddie chuckles. 

Halley leaps upon the abandoned chair, perhaps to watch them. It’s true… Cats _feel_ happiness. 

“… Well, over the years that we’ve known each other, I’ve learned that _matching_ is many different things. It’s in the way we look, but also in the way move and the way we talk. It’s in the way you play air guitar when we’re on stage, in the way I can match the tone of my voice to yours at will. We’re a _pair,_ Freddie. Truly. And not a perfect one, but that’s the whole point, I think. We match because we choose to. Because we _want_ to… I’ve always wanted to because I love you.” 

At this moment, Freddie understands what it means to be struck speechless. To be struck speechless and know that it’s alright because you don’t _have_ to say anything. 

Freddie doesn’t need words; he doesn’t _need_ to say ‘yes’ when he can take Brian’s face in his hands and pepper chaste kisses all over it; he doesn’t need to say anything when the tears are streaming down his cheeks and his hands are shaking and he knows that they _can’t_ get married but he’ll wear the ring proudly anyway. 

This isn’t a promise of a better, kinder future. It proves that they don’t need to have that to exist, to love one another, to be together. 

—

To say that Freddie’s surprised by Roger’s questions would be an understatement. Maybe he should’ve expected it when he refused to take his ring off this morning, but the most puzzling part is still that he seemed to… _know._ That’s what Freddie says while they sip their post-studio coffee in the flat.

Brian’s brow furrows “Are you sure? How would he know it was me?” 

Freddie smiles, nudging his foot in teasing. “Darling, who else would it be?” 

—

Choosing an ending is even _harder._

But we don’t owe that to anyone. 

_“Purple haze all in my eyes_

_Don't know if it's day or night_

_You got me blowin', blowin' my mind_

**_Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time_ ** _?”_


End file.
